A Corrections Officer's Tale

Mrs Ramsbottom handed me a cane from the top of her desk and nodded to me. I was about to earn my stripes – pardon the pun!

I walked behind the lovely lady's bare bum and tapped her lovely buttocks with the cane. "Spread the legs, Anna, much wider," I instructed her.

The 18-year-old complied, displaying to her three-woman audience a glorious pink sex cleft peeping out from between the fair hair. Her anus was a delightful little brown atoll at the top of her sex trench.

I walked in front of the naked girl and smiled down at her, dragging out her misery, a ploy flagellators have used down the ages.

"Hello my dear," I said, using as cheerful and friendly a tone as I could. "I am the new corrections officer at Birch House. My name is Mrs Pain, and you are Anna, is that correct?"

"Yes, Mrs Pain," the girl mumbled, in one of those flat, undistinctive Home Counties accents.

"Good," I said, "I can see we're going to get on famously. Now, I am going to give you six of the best. After each stroke you will say 'One, thank-you, Mrs Pain' and so on until the sixth stroke has been delivered. Understood?"

"Yes, Mrs Pain," the girl said, in a voice which scarcely rose above a whisper.

"Good, now we'll begin," I told her.

Stepping behind her lovely upturned arse, I then drew out the agony of her waiting just a teeny bit longer – I'm such a tease when I put my mind to it!

"Oh, Anna," I said, as if the thought had just entered my mind. "There's an old saying which goes along the lines of 'This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you'. You've probably heard of it."

I paused and the naked girl replied: "Yes, Mrs Pain."

I chuckled. "Well, when it comes to a Mrs Pain thrashing I can assure you that that is certainly not the case."

Then I laid the cane across the centre of the victim's buttocks, drew back and delivered my first stroke of correction at Birch House. The sound Miss Whippy made as she came into contact with Anna's lovely bum was sheer music!

The cane struck perfectly amidships, as it were, leaving a bright pink mark across her bum. "Aaargh," the girl cried, then hastily added: "One, thank-you, Mrs Pain."

My next stroke cut into the lower third of Anna'a arse, eliciting another "Aaargh" bellow from her, followed by a throbbing voice calling out: "Two, thank-you, Mrs Pain."

Stroke three was placed across the upper third of her bum and for her fourth, I changed the cane to my other hand and placed myself off to her other side. The stroke cut diagonally across the three stripe marks already deposited on her bottom. For the fifth, I returned Miss Whippy to my other hand, and laid that stroke in another diagonal, this one going across her arse in the opposite direction. Her final cut came on the underside of her buttocks, leaving a thin stripe just above the tops of her thighs.

"Thank-you, Mrs Pain," said the headmistress, after Anna had thanked me for her final stroke. "Now Anna, pick up your clothes and return to your dormitory. Matron will be along later to attend to your stroke marks."

As the girl departed, matron whispered to me: "Wonderful. It's so nice to see a professional in action."

Mary-Jane, the second girl on the list for today's discipline, entered, stripped naked, stood over the bench and duly received her six strokes. To be honest, I can't remember much about her – she must have been extremely plain.

But Karla – ah, now there's the one I do remember!

Karla was a tall, vivacious, sultry black girl. Before her entrance, Mrs Ramsbottom had reminded that she was Birch House's "troublemaker". She apparently considered herself something of a barrack room lawyer, constantly reminding the girls of their rights – silly thing.

Now I trust you won't think me racist – some of my best friends are Jews, for heaven's sake – but I have always considered black birds to be simply made for the lash, or, in the case of Birch House, the cane. They have such wonderfully upholstered bums. Flogging a black woman is top of my list of fetishes, that's if you consider I have a fetish!

Karla entered and looked aghast when the headmistress ordered her to strip nude. But she did – and it revealed to us all a magnificently built body. Her hair was close cropped, all tight and crinkly. Her breasts were big, with large nipples and massive areolae surrounding them. I could see why men like to suck women's breasts. Her belly was firm, her thighs muscular, sturdy. Her pussy was covered in a mass of dark, tight crinkly pubic hair. But her bum! It was a bum that flagellators dream of!

Large mounds of magnificent flesh, but firm like two great big black marbles. They gleamed, they had a sort of glow. I could hardly wait as she bent to place her clothes in the corner, displaying a stunning anus, puckered and inviting. I have to confess that the gusset of my directoire knickers was sopping wet at the sight of her.

Karla returned to the middle of the room, a sullen look on her very pretty face. I ordered her to turn her back to me and place her hands on the bench. The stance presented me with a view to die for!

I then introduced myself and informed her of the rules concerning counting. She nodded her head, she understood.

Standing behind her with the light heavyweight Miss Whippy in my right hand, I placed it gently across her posterior. I heard her give a sharp intake of breath, then I removed the cane and slashed it down across her glorious bum cheeks.

The stroke cut delightfully into her but no response. I cut her again, her buttocks wobbling sexily as Miss Whippy made her presence felt. Still no response. A third blow followed soon after. At last the little harlot spoke: "Three, thank-you Mrs Pain."

Time to educate her, obviously! I stepped in front of her, her breasts hung heavily, her nipples erect. I wanted to suck them, and there's nothing queer about me, I can tell you.

"No, no, no, Karla, my dear," I tut-tutted. "The first stroke did not count – you didn't thank me for it. Nor did the second. The third stroke should have been followed by 'One, thank-you, Mrs Pain. All of which, my dear girl, means we haven't started yet. So it would appear you're going to get 15 strokes, doesn't it."

They talk about looks that can kill. Well, my dears, if that were the case I wouldn't be around today to tell you about it.

I then stepped behind the lovely naked bum and swept Miss Whippy down in a diagonal blow to Karla's arse. "One, thank-you, Mrs Pain," came the cry. You see, Miss Whippy always gets through in the end.

Eleven more blows from my trusty cane whipped down across Karla's bare bum and by the time I had finished my handiwork her buttocks were ablaze with a delightful criss-cross pattern where Miss Whippy had done her corrective caresses.

Even for a "hardened" campaigner like myself, the thrill of flogging such a delightful bum was almost too exciting to bear. And Karla was a far more respectful woman when she left the head's study than when she had entered it, I can tell you.

As the door closed behind the black beauty, Mrs Arbuthnot came over to me and kissed me on the cheek: "That was simply stunning, my dear. My congratulations. I'm off to check on the girls now, but I look forward to many more of your marvellously therapeutic sessions."

I smiled, demurely, I hope, but inwardly I was glowing from the praise and the dampness in my knickers was now of monsoon proportions!

Word of my power of punitive punishment spread through Birch House like wildfire, but strangely did nothing to improve the behaviour of the young madams. There was always a steady stream of two or three young ladies, waiting apprehensively outside Mrs Ramsbottom's study each day for Miss Whippy and Mrs Pain.

Now let me fast forward, as the current saying goes, a few months. I arrived in Mrs Ramsbottom's office ready to deliver my after-school dose of punitive medicine.

Seated opposite her and accepting a glass of her dry sherry, I saw a strange, smug smile on Mrs Ramsbottom's face. "There will be no floggings to administer today, my dear," she informed me.

"I'm delighted to hear it," I said, putting as brave a face on it as I could muster, although secretly I was extremely disappointed. My directoire knickers, which I had been wearing all day, were by now very moist in anticipation of the punishments I was expecting to hand out. "I trust this means my methods have brought about an improvement in the pupils' behaviour."

Mrs Ramsbottom smiled another smug sort of smile.

"Well, no, actually," she replied. "But there is one pupil who has to attend after school – it's that awful Karla again, I'm afraid."

The lush black bird! "And why is she not to be flogged, if I may inquire?" I asked.

"Well," said Mrs Ramsbottom, "it would appear that her previous floggings – I see from our records she has had five, all of 12 strokes, except of course that first marathon session – have got to her. When she realised she was again on report she approached me recently and offered herself in another way. Would you like to hear about it?"

Would I! "I am intrigued," I told the head, trying to keep the mounting excitement from my voice.

"Well," said Mrs Ramsbottom, sipping her sherry, "a week ago she hinted that she might prefer to provide me with sexual favours in an attempt to forego her punishment. I acceded – on a trial basis, merely, you understand?"

"Yes," I nodded quickly, praying that Mrs Ramsbottom would get on with it.

"Well, she has now been reporting to me twice a week to provide me with cunnilingus. She performs it three times and I have three orgasms. Simple."

I nodded appreciatively. "And she's due soon?"

Mrs Ramsbottom nodded now. "Yes – and since you have such a close interest in her, shall I say welfare, that I decided to invite you along to witness her performance."

Just then there was a timid knock on the door. "Yes?" said the head.

"Karla here, madam, reporting for duty," came the voice.

"Enter," said Mrs Ramsbottom, and the black beauty came in. She looked surprised to see me and the headmistress informed her: "I have invited the corrections officer to witness your performance, Karla. I trust you have no objections?"

Karla shook her head. "No, madam, none at all," she said.

"Good, then lock the door and let's get started," the head commanded.

Karla locked the door, then went to a corner, stripped, making sure her clothing was left in a neat pile, then walked naked, her brown body glowing with health, into the middle of the room.

Mrs Ramsbottom rose from her desk and stepped to a large high-backed and high-sided leather chair. Dropping her skirt, I saw the she was already pantyless, her brown-thatched pussy with its labia lips lush and pink and ready for oral adoration.

The headmistress sat down, raised her legs and placed her thighs on the broad arms of the chair, her thighs white in contrast to her lovely black stockings.

Mrs Ramsbottom looked up at the lovely 20-year-old and smiled: "Righto, Karla, can we now make a start on orgasm number one?"

The naked woman knelt before her headmistress and buried her face in the older woman's hairy pussy. Then there was a sound of licking.

"Ah yes," said Mrs Ramsbottom, her head falling back against the back of the chair, her eyes shut in blissful concentration. "Start on my anus, you know how I love the feel of your tongue there. Yes, try to get it further up, yes, that's lovely."

Karla was certainly a keen analinguist but soon her task became that of cunnilingus as she was instructed to move to the head's cunt – Mrs Ramsbottom's word, not mine I hasten to say. Then her labia lips, then her clitoris. Soon the headmistress was shuddering to a noisy but and what sounded like an extremely satisfying climax.

As she recovered herself, the head ordered the panting black beauty to go to "her corner". Karla went to where her clothes were lying on the floor, turned her back to us and placed her hands, fingers intertwined on her neck.

Mrs Ramsbottom and I enjoyed another sherry, then the head said: "Come over here, I'll show you something." Together we walked to where Karla stood.

I observed faint traces of my corrective handiwork on the woman's bum, then the headmistress spoke: "Widen your legs, my dear." Karla complied.

"Feel her down there – go on!" said the head.

I did, my fingers trembling as they caressed Karla's statuesque bum, then slipped between her buttocks to her sex trench. It was sopping wet!

"She's aroused!" I exclaimed to the head.

"Precisely," said Mrs Ramsbottom. Then she issued her instructions to Karla.

"Karla, I have decided that since we are enjoying the presence of Mrs Pain here for your session this evening, you can give her the second orgasm of your little performance. Won't that be nice?"

The black woman spoke: "Yes, madam, I'm sure it will."

Mrs Ramsbottom looked at me and said: "Go over to my chair and get ready, Mrs Pain."

I removed my skirt, then pulled off my directoire knickers, aware that my pussy was dripping with excitement. I kept my bra and blouse on and my shoes, but since I was not wearing stockings I was ready.

I have, I must confess, a rather hirsute pussy and, to my embarrassment was aware that I had not bathed or showered for a couple of days. Then I thought, why be embarrassed? Any embarrassment should be Karla's!

The head then turned the black woman around and pushed her towards where I sat in the chair, my thighs splayed on the arms, my hairy pussy ready for Karla's caresses.

The obedient little harlot knelt in front of me and placed her mouth close to my pussy. She tried to recoil as my feminine aromas reached her nostrils, but Mrs Ramsbottom pressed the spike of her stiletto against the back of her head and then I felt the kiss of a woman's mouth on my pussy for the very first time.

"Tell her where to go," instructed the head. "I love it when she starts on my anus."

"You heard madam, Karla," I said, "anus."

Karla's educated young mouth began to work on my back passage, it delved into my musky channel. Like the headmistress, I closed my eyes as I experienced the bliss of a woman's mouth. Then she was working on my vagina, then my labia, finally my clitoris. I'm afraid I was just so aroused that I was soon panting and groaning as I enjoyed my first non-finger induced orgasm for simply ages!

Well, to cut a long story short – and I fear this story is getting a little long! – Karla's twice-a-week visits to the headmistress to provide oral pleasure continued with me in attendance as well. It was, Mrs Ramsbottom reminded me, "our little secret".

That was all, as I have said, in 1985. I continued as "corrections officer" at Birch House for a couple of years, until the government in its wimpish wisdom decided to close such establishments.

And now, I am sorry to tell you, Mrs Ramsbottom's and my "little secret" is a secret no longer. The bitch Karla went on to become a reformed woman. She even has a law degree. And she has, I am also sorry to say, become a whistle-blower.

The appalling harlot has complained to the government on behalf of herself and several other former pupils about the way they were treated at Birch House all those years ago. There is to be a government inquiry. Charges may be laid. It's disgraceful, and anyway, it was all so long ago.

Mrs Ramsbottom has, I'm afraid, gone to her maker. The matron has gone, who knows where. But the snake-in-the-grass Miss Carter is singing like the proverbial canary.

The press, of course, has been its usual scurrilous self. I have been vilified in the tabloids as "The dominatrix of Birch House". Really. Comparing me with prostitutes who take money to flog perverts! The utter cheek.

The weightier papers have also had their laughs. Columns have been written about girls undergoing "humiliations" involving lesbian sex. Karla's wet pussy was a give-away during her performances, I can tell you. Humiliations? What next.

While the press have been their usual guttersnipe selves, the legal profession, of course, has been crawling all over the case and making money, too.

And MPs! These men – and women, I'm sad to say – who have reputations slightly below pimps and used-car salesmen, have been saying scandalous things about me under the cover of Parliamentary privilege.

It is all so worrying and so trying. The ghastly paparazzi have been camped outside my home down here on the coast for days. One horrid little magazine even asked me to pose for them in sexy black lingerie and high heels, wielding a cane. I am 65, for goodness sake. It's all so disgusting.

And expensive. I've been forced to employ a lawyer, a loathsome little man who will only make money out of me, I'm sure.

The press is awful. The legal profession has no scruples whatsoever. MPs are lower than snake oil salesmen.

I often sip a Harvey's Bristol Cream and ask myself: whatever happened to moral behaviour?